None So Deadly Read online

  I ordered a beer and had been studying the menu for maybe ten minutes when I felt the presence of someone at the front of the booth. I looked up at the gap-toothed grin of a short, wide expanse of a man wearing a slightly rumpled brown suit. He stuck out a beefy hand.

  “Truck. Truck McWhorters. Great to see you again. It’s been way too long.”

  I guessed the spiel was part of the subterfuge and thought I might as well play along.

  “Sure, Truck. You’re lookin’ good as ever.”

  He slid into the seat next to me and glanced down, saw the package, looked back up at me, smiling.

  “Trip down went well then?”

  “Yeah, fine.” I was already tired of the guy and hoped he wasn’t planning to order food. Any friend or associate of the MFs was someone I didn’t want in my life for any longer than necessary.

  He looked around the place. “Nice spot. Never been in here before.”

  “You from around here?”

  “Yeah. More or less.”

  I drank some beer as the server came over.

  “Something for you, sir?”

  Truck, if that was his real name, shook his head. “Thanks, but I have an appointment. Just wanted to say hello to an old friend. Spotted him through the window.”

  The server looked at me. “You, sir? Have you had a chance to look at the menu?”

  “Maybe in a few minutes,” I told her. “I think I’ll just work on my beer for now.”

  She nodded and moved off and McWhorters stood up. The package was in his hand. I glanced around the restaurant to see if anyone appeared to be paying attention to us. It didn’t look like it.

  We shook hands again.

  “Great to see you again, buddy.”

  “Likewise, Truck. Take care of yourself.” What I wanted to say was I hope you get run over by a truck, Truck, and the sooner the better, but I didn’t want to start a scene in the restaurant so I kept it courteous. Besides, it was possible that McWhorters was in the same spot I was — doing the MFs’ bidding because he had no choice. Possible, but not likely. He looked like he was having too good a time for that to be the case.

  “See you again … soon.” He grinned at me.

  I lowered my voice. “Don’t bet on it.”

  “I think I will bet on that.” The grin got bigger and he winked.

  Then he was gone. I thought about following him, finding out a little more about him. For future reference. Decided against it. Drained the last of the beer instead.

  I threw an American twenty-dollar bill on the table and left, relieved that I didn’t see the server on the way out. As good as the Bin 119 looked, I suddenly wanted to be somewhere else. Somewhere that wasn’t associated with my courier work for the MFs.

  I stood on the sidewalk, watched twenty-somethings streaming into a nearby place that looked popular with that set. I crossed the street, climbed back into the Accord, and drove for a while. I was hungry and finally settled on Famous Dave’s — another place that would have been great under different circumstances. I opted for ribs and a couple of rye and diets. I spent most of my time there thinking about how I’d deal with the MFs the next time they came calling. If Truck McWhorters’s insinuation had any truth to it, I might be making the trip to the U.S. again, and soon. It was all unfolding exactly as Cobb had said it would, and that depressed me.

  I didn’t finish the ribs and passed on dessert. I nursed the second rye and diet for a while and listened to the music — it was country but it was okay. Mostly I stared at the wall decor and at a couple of families that looked pretty damn normal. Probably not one of them had cut any recent deals with motorcycle thugs.

  I checked into a place called the Dude Rancher Inn. I thought about calling Jill and Cobb but called neither. I’d told them I had to run down to the States to meet with a distributor about my kids’ books.

  Jill had thought it odd that there had been so little lead time before the meeting, and I said the book people had given me a few options and this one seemed the best. More damn lies. Which was why I didn’t call her. I was sick of listening to me.

  The trip home was uneventful. I stopped at a mall in Great Falls and bought Kyla a Steph Curry jersey. I wasn’t sure how many ten-year-old Canadian girls counted NBAers among their sports heroes, but I knew one who did.

  I finished the third Rolling Rock and thought about a fourth — decided against it, twirled the empty third bottle in my hands while I thought. I tried to focus on the Danny Luft case and where we were in the investigation, which wasn’t, if I were honest, all that far. In my mind I checked off everyone we’d talked to, replayed their interviews, and concluded there wasn’t even a front-runner on the list.

  The person I liked the least was Susannah Hainsey, but I realized that my personal likes and dislikes when it came to witnesses and even suspects were pretty much meaningless. I’d been putting together a list of potentially upset husbands, but of course, that list, in order to be comprehensive, would need to include husbands and boyfriends of women Claiborne didn’t marry. And identifying the members of that potentially rather large group would be difficult, if not impossible, with the demise of the Philanderer-in-Residence.

  I turned on the TV, turned it off before the end of the first commercial break, took a long, hot shower and tried to read, thinking it would likely be a long time before I fell asleep. I was wrong.

  I was still asleep in the recliner when the banging on the door reminded me that way too many people seemed to be able to get by the intercom and security and into the building. I sat up and faced the door — not happy. “The guy who used to live here has moved. I’m a homeless person and I’m squatting here so bugger off.”

  “I’ve got coffee and I’ve got news, so get your ass out of bed.”

  Cobb. It was often Cobb who cut short my sleeping in.

  “Good news?”

  “Feet on the floor, soldier, or I take my coffee out on the street and distribute it to real homeless people.”

  I stood up and started for the door, realized I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and detoured to the closet. I pulled on sweats and a Stampeders hoodie before padding across the hardwood to the door. Cobb was leaning against the door jamb looking dapper. I hated him.

  I turned away and headed for the bathroom. After I’d washed my face and brushed my teeth, I decided to risk a return to the living room, the only room that constituted my bachelor pad. Cobb had set my coffee on the kitchen table. He had taken over my recliner and was sipping from his own cup as he stared out the same window I’d been staring out the night before. I moved to the hide-a-bed, pushed the covers out of the way, and sat. I took two sips of the coffee before I looked at him.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “You’ve looked better.”

  “Than what? You said you had news.”

  “Our client is out of jail.”

  “Bail?”

  Cobb shook his head. “Uh-uh. Charges have been dropped. Or if they haven’t been, they will be later today.”

  That jolted me awake. “I know you’re not kidding so I won’t say, Are you kidding? What the hell happened?”

  “Someone confessed.”

  “Damn. Who?”

  “Rachel Claiborne.”

  “Damn,” I said again. “I didn’t have her picked at all.” I remembered that both Jill and Kyla had pegged her for the killer right off.

  “Well, you might be right.”

  “What? You just said —”

  “I just said she confessed.”

  I sat back, took a couple of sips of coffee. “You might have to help me with this.”

  “People confess to things they didn’t do. Not often, but it happens. Usually it’s because they’re shielding the person who is guilty or, in this case, has been charged with the crime.”

  “You think she’s taking the rap for Danny.”

  “I’m saying that’s a possibility.”

  I thought about that. “So she’s
prepared to see her daughter deprived of both parents in order to save Danny’s neck?”

  Cobb looked at me. “I’ve been struggling with that, too. Maybe her moral compass is such that she couldn’t stand to see the kid go down. Maybe she even blames herself for letting things get to this point.”

  “Or maybe she shot her husband.”

  Cobb nodded. “Or maybe that.”

  “So, what’s next for us?”

  “I submit a bill, Danny’s father pays us, and we move on to our next case.”

  “Wow, not how I expected it to end.”

  “Or we could talk about your trip to Montana.”

  I tried to keep my face from showing alarm or surprise, but I wasn’t sure I succeeded.

  “Not much excitement there,” I said. “Met with the book distributor, looks like we’ll get more books into the U.S. … never a bad thing.”

  Cobb leaned back, sipped his coffee, and looked out the window again. “Sorry, but I think I’ll have to call bullshit on that one, partner.”

  I knew that he had figured it out, or at least some of it. I decided not to make it worse by sticking to the lie. “What do you think you know?”

  “I don’t know a hell of a lot about publishing and selling books but I can’t see some bookseller in Montana saying drop everything and get down here for a meeting so we can sell your books on this side of 49. On the other hand, I can see a criminal element saying we need you to get your ass to Montana for some activity that is written up in boldface print in the legal code.”

  “I didn’t think I had a choice.”

  “I told you when they contacted you I wanted to know about it before you did anything.”

  “I know that, but to repeat —”

  “Don’t repeat it. I get that you felt trapped. How did it go down?”

  I told him about Minnis knocking me around in the parking area behind his building and my trip to Billings and the delivery to Truck McWhorters.

  He pulled out his notebook, jotted a couple of things down, then looked at me. “You okay?”

  “Physically? Fit as a fiddle. Mentally, emotionally, not so hot. I hate lying to Jill and I’m not real proud of having to lie to you either.”

  “I know that. Did you get a look at what was in the package?”

  I shook my head. “Didn’t unwrap it. Didn’t want to know.”

  “This won’t be the last time. Hard to say how long it will be until you hear from them again. But you will hear from them again.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much what McWhorters said.”

  “Okay, it looks like we’ve got some time off. Why don’t you kick back with Jill and Kyla and forget about crime-fighting for a while.”

  “I can handle the kicking back part but it’s a little tougher knowing that Scubberd and Minnis are out there and they aren’t going away.”

  Cobb didn’t answer. I could see he was deep in thought.

  “I told you before, I don’t want your help with this.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded but was still absent. “Yeah, you did tell me that.” At that he turned and looked at me for a long time. “Same rule though. I want you to tell me when you hear from them again.”

  When, not if.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do. It’s not optional, Adam. You call me.”

  “All right.”

  “Good. Time to change the subject,” he said. “I talked to Yvette Landry. She’s the lead investigator on the Kennedy killing. I met with her a while back and told her everything we had learned and I threw in some of Kennedy’s thoughts.”

  I knew Landry from a previous case Cobb and I had worked. She was a smart, relentless cop with a solid track record.

  “Like how he thought there might be a dirty cop involved?” I said.

  “I didn’t use that term, but I did say that Kennedy had pointed out a few irregularities in the original investigation.”

  “And?”

  “And she said she’d do some checking. She called me yesterday. She’d like to meet with us.”

  “Interesting.”

  “So, it’s Friday. Take the weekend to be with your ladies. Maybe watch Frozen. I’ll set up something with Landry for next week.”

  “Chisholm still her partner?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Andrew Chisholm wasn’t as good as Landry, although he was still a pretty good investigator. He didn’t like Cobb or me and didn’t try very hard to mask his feelings.

  I stood up. “Okay, Frozen it is. Which, by the way, I’ve seen at least four times and would happily watch again rather than the chick flick fare I’m often subjected to.”

  “Yeah, I’m feeling really bad for you.”

  I laughed at that and it felt good to laugh, for probably the first time since my encounters with Minnis.

  It was neither Frozen nor a chick flick. Instead we watched South Pacific and ate popcorn. I’m a sucker for musicals, so it was a good night — and it actually got my mind off the MFs. I’d forgotten that “Some Enchanted Evening” was one of the hit songs. As it was being performed, I thought back to Cynthia telling us about Claiborne singing it to her. I was having trouble seeing Claiborne as Emile de Becque.

  After the movie, Kyla kissed her mom, hugged me, and headed off to bed with a book, leaving Jill and me to finish off the bottle of Ripasso we’d opened with dinner. I leaned back on the couch and she curled into my chest and shoulder.

  “So, tell me about Billings, Montana,” she said.

  I was glad we weren’t looking at each other. “It was okay,” I said. “I didn’t get to see much of it, but what I saw I thought was pretty cool. I kept seeing places I thought would be fun to go to with you.” That part was true.

  “And your meeting? That go okay?”

  I couldn’t tell from her inflection if there was any doubt on her part. I hoped not.

  “It was short but I think it went well. I guess I’ll have to wait to see if anything comes out of it.” Stay as close to the truth as you can — makes lying easier. I’d read that somewhere and hated that I was following that advice.

  We sipped wine, cuddled, occasionally kissed, but neither of us said much. We didn’t have to. The absolute joy of being close to each other didn’t require conversation or even sound beyond the music Jill had chosen — k.d. lang’s Hymns of the 49th Parallel, an album that had long been one of my favourites.

  It was close to perfect. Close enough to make me almost forget the events of the last couple of days.

  Almost.

  Kyla came back out of her bedroom to give us a second set of hugs and whispered to me that she was reading a book about police work. We fist-bumped and she grinned and headed off to bed.

  Jill smiled at me. “You two are crazy about each other. That’s so cool.”

  “I hope she is crazy about me because I’m nuts about that kid.”

  “I can guarantee it.” Jill was still smiling. “I think maybe we should follow her example, don’t you?” Her head was tilted toward the bedroom.

  “Seems like quite a good plan.”

  “I’m going to need more than a fist bump though.” She took my hand and led me down the hall as k.d. performed Jane Siberry’s “Love Is Everything.”

  NINE

  Detective Yvette Landry was sipping green tea and nibbling at some wafer thing. Chisholm, her sidekick, was concentrating on looking tough. We were sitting in the Higher Ground in Kensington, and Cobb and I were on the opposite side of the table working on coffee, no wafers.

  There hadn’t been much small talk — none from Chisholm. Apparently, discussing the weather doesn’t fit the tough-guy mould Chisholm dedicated every waking moment to.

  Landry was an attractive woman. She was wearing a tailored dark-blue suit; her hair was cut short, and she had just enough makeup to give a little colour to an already pleasant face. Chisholm was wearing a black leather jacket and a close-fitting toque. Looked like a bass player in a grunge band, but less friendly.


  “We’ve looked into the points Marlon Kennedy, a.k.a. Kendall Mark, raised in relation to the murder of Faith Unruh,” Landry said. “I’m not sure we’ve got much to offer you, but I wanted to follow up, let you know we hadn’t blown you off.”

  “I didn’t think you’d blown us off, Detective,” Cobb said. “But we appreciate the update.”

  Landry opened a folder, took out a single piece of paper and retrieved a set of reading glasses from her purse. “As you know, Kennedy raised four points.”

  Cobb nodded. I drank some coffee.

  “The first had to do with the lack of forensic evidence. No prints. No DNA match. He’s right about that, and while it might be considered somewhat unusual or even bad luck, it’s hardly evidence of any funny business at the police level. In fact, it doesn’t really point to shoddy investigation.” She looked at Cobb. “You were a cop, and you know as well as I do that the worst thing that’s happened to murder investigations is CSI television. Every week a crime, no matter how complex, is solved in an hour. And almost always there’s wonderful forensic evidence that just needs to be uncovered and correctly interpreted and bingo, the good guys are making an arrest.”

  Cobb nodded again. “And I know the real world isn’t like that.”

  “Exactly. So while Kennedy was right on that point, it doesn’t really smell bad.”

  “Did your research indicate whether there was no DNA evidence or that what there was had been contaminated by someone at the scene?”

  “The report I read didn’t point to one or the other. Which takes us to Kennedy’s second point.”

  Cobb held up a hand. “Excuse me, Detective, but that’s a rather quick move off of point number one. If there was DNA evidence and it was contaminated before or during the investigation, it seems to me that would require some scrutiny itself.”

  Landry nodded but it looked like an impatient gesture to me. “That’s true but there is no indication that contamination of evidence took place. As I said, there was no discussion of DNA evidence beyond a mention that investigators were unable to rely on that data during their investigation. And now, back to point number two, if I may.”